The Pale Tower
The iron ring on the door knocker is green with age, a verdigris patina that clings to the metal like a second skin. You press your thumb against it, the cold seeping into the pad of your skin, a small, sharp reminder of the world outside this stone shell. The door is heavy, oak, banded with rivets that have long since rusted into the wood. You do not knock. You know the rhythm of the house,...
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